


Whither Pride Goeth

by Linguini



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Even Sky Gods have off days sometimes, Gen, Gen Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Pre-post-Fitton secret sharing, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-05
Updated: 2012-05-05
Packaged: 2017-11-04 21:16:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguini/pseuds/Linguini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Douglas may have overestimated his ability to carry a fire engine.  Just a bit.  Not that he'll ever admit it, stubborn sod.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whither Pride Goeth

Douglas pokes his head out of the door, shielding his eyes from the hot Tunisian sun. The coast is clear. Turning back into the cabin, he marshals his troops.

“All right, boys, Martin and I have done the sneaky bit, and I don't think anyone saw. Now, the less sneaky bit, which people will see. So it's all about speed—we get out, we do it, we get back in. Understand?” He glances around, making eye contact with as many of the players as possible. They give him a collective “Aye” in response.

He turns to look out the door again, and asks “Are you ready?” If anything, the “Aye” that follows is even more enthusiastic. It’s possible they’re really, really looking forward to getting home, but years on the cricket pitch have taught him that there’s also a fair bit of enthusiasm at the prospect of causing mischief.

Douglas starts back down the aisle toward the door, calling out as he goes. “Then onwards for England, Harry and St George!” The fierce “Boo” sets him back a bit, but he remembers his crowd and corrects quickly. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. For Scotland, cricket, and St . . . Wisden.” His minions cheer and rush down the stairs towards the parked fire truck.

Eventually, it starts to move, helped only ever so slightly by twelve Scottish cricketers, an enthusiastic cabin steward, and a slightly-middle-aged first officer with sharp wits and a keen intellect. Douglas can’t help but smile as he mentally writes out the story that’ll surely be worth a round or two at the Beeps and Squeaks. _Or maybe,_ he thinks, _we should move to that old DC-10 fuselage. But we’ll need a new name_... Before he knows it, the fire truck is shifted sufficiently to allow GERTI’s passage, and he’s forced to put aside thoughts of the latest iteration of the airfield pub.

With a resounding crash, the men drop the truck. Douglas spots an airfield worker across the tarmac, and hustles his team back into the plane. The thirteen other men ascend the stairs. Douglas turns to follow, but is hampered temporarily as a sudden spike of pain shoots up his spine, whiting out his vision and forcing him to grab onto the railing. Just as he’s regained his equilibrium, Carolyn appears at the top of the stairs, glaring down at him.

“Douglas! This is no time to dawdle,” she scolds.

The first officer fixes her with his brightest smile. “Ah, Carolyn. Just taking the opportunity to improve my tan. The ladies do have standards, you know.”

She just huffs at him, but turns back to the cabin, barking out seating instructions with the fervor of a military instructor. Douglas climbs the stairs, determined to leave this wretched airstrip as soon as humanly possible, his white knuckles the only sign of pain he allows himself.

It takes a good hour for them to make the trip all the way to Kibili, and Douglas can swear he feels individual grains of sand they roll over in the muscles of his back. The headache behind his eyes increases with every minute Martin spends rehashing the story of the injustices they’ve just suffered. As if Douglas hadn’t actually been there. As if Douglas hadn’t, once again, provided the means for them to get out of a sticky situation. As if Douglas hadn’t _singlehandedly_ just saved Carolyn from potential bankruptcy, saved Martin’s job.

It’s better, he reminds himself, that Martin do all the talking, without letting him get a word in edgewise. The more he’s forced to talk, the greater the chance the Martin will figure out that something’s off with his first officer, and then he’ll just annoy Douglas into admitting his pain. He doesn’t know why it’s important that he keep up appearances in front of this little man playing dress up in a captain’s uniform, but there’s nothing more important to his self-esteem right now than completely hiding every iota of discomfort he’s feeling.

Eventually, they reach Kibili, and Martin turns to Douglas with a grin, flushed with the excitement of a boy who’s had his first taste of real rebellion. His first officer merely raises his eyebrows and announces “Post road trip checks complete, Captain.” Martin’s smile grows wider as Carolyn walks through the flight deck door.

“Hello, my very clever pilots,” she croons. “Which of you is coming to file the flight plan with me?”

Before Martin can say anything, Douglas pipes up. “Clearly, this is going to be a difficult task, so the most experienced pilot should do it.”

The captain’s eyes narrow. “But I’m the captain,” he complains. “Flight plan changes are my responsibility.”

“Really, Martin? You’re going to quibble at a time like this?”

Martin glares even more fiercely. “Yes, Douglas. May I remind you who is the captain of this aircraft?”

Douglas inclines his head slightly, and puts on his most simpering tone. “By all means, then, Sir. Please, go show us all how it’s done.”

“Fine. I will. Make sure the flight checks are ready by the time I get back.” Martin grabs his hat and shoves it on his head, following Carolyn out into the hot sun.

Douglas waits until he hears the plane empty of cricketers and stewards before he makes his way to the loo to splash water on his face and execute a cautious assessment. He doesn’t think he’s done permanent damage, although he can feel the muscles in his back tightening dangerously, and the paracetamol he nicked from the first aid kit in the galley isn’t really helping what’s quickly turning into a migraine. _Nothing for it,_ he thinks. _Just suffer through until Fitton. And keep that busybody **captain** out of your business._

Surprisingly, Carolyn’s ruthless efficiency seems to cancel out Martin’s usual bad luck, and GERTI’s cleared for takeoff in no time at all. Once they’re in the air, Douglas breathes a short, silent, sigh of relief and tries to surreptitiously stretch his back out.  
Martin glances sidelong at him. “Something wrong, Douglas?”

“Hmmm?” the older man answers. “Oh, no, not a thing. Just basking in the glory of having saved us from certain ruin. Again.”

A wry chuckle drifts across the panels between them. “Well, you’re lucky you didn’t hurt yourself moving that _fire truck_ ,” he says, doing a passable imitation of Jutteau’s accented “fire truck.” “You’re not as young as you used to be, you know.”

“Really, Martin,” Douglas rejoins. “I didn’t see any young captains out there, shoving with the rest of us.”

“Well, someone had to stay and do the pre-flight checks!” Martin returns indignantly. “I could have helped. I would have been a big help. And really…helpful.”

Douglas smirks at him. “New game. Synonyms. First one to repeat a synonym loses. First word: help.”

Martin flushes red. “Never mind!” he huffs, and settles in for a sulk. His companion doesn’t mind, as a silent flight deck is the best way to keep the captain from noticing the strain he’s under.

They fly in silence back to Fitton, speaking only as required, which Douglas can more than handle. He feels a little guilt for having taken the flush of success from the younger man, but it’s nearly smothered by his overwhelming need not to show weakness in front of anyone, let alone Martin. He forces his mind away from examining that thought any further, and focuses instead on mocking Martin’s less-than-stellar landing under near-perfect conditions at Fitton.

Douglas is the recipient of a minor miracle when Martin dashes out of the plane as soon as possible, leaving him alone with the task of maneuvering himself out of the seat. His back muscles have practically seized up, and a lesser man would be hunched over in pain. Walking through the aircraft, Douglas’s eternal running monologue shifts into “motivational seminar” mode. _Keep your head up, Richardson. No reason for anyone to find anything amiss. Just make it to the galley. Good, just fine. Now to the door. Fantastic. Now, just make it to the car, and you’re off scot-free._

Even sky gods must have off days, however, as he makes it to the second from last stair before Arthur calls to him from inside the plane. As he turns to answer the steward, Douglas somehow misjudges the next step, and his shoes skid off the tread. _Christ_ , he thinks as he experiences the brief sensation of weightlessness. _This is going to hurt._

And hurt it does, when he wakes up lying on the ground, looking up at the concerned faces of the rest of MJN. He stifles a groan as he tries to push himself to sit up, wincing as his wrist nearly gives out on him.

“Arthur, Martin, help him up from there” Carolyn orders, and rushes off to find the medic. The two men do as they’re told, eventually levering Douglas fully upright. The first officer sways a bit as the world goes grey around the edges, but his companions manage to hold onto him.

“Come on, Douglas. Let’s get you inside where it’s a bit more…private.” Martin pauses and looks at Arthur over Douglas’s head when the older main fails to give any acknowledgement. A frisson of worry slides up his spine at Douglas’s dogged silence, but he bends his head to the task at hand and between the three of them they manage to make it into the portacabin, where they dump their burden as gently as possible on the moth-beaten sofa inside.

Douglas does nothing more than tuck his injured arm to his stomach and lean over to put his head between his legs. Seemingly out of nowhere, Arthur appears with a bin, placing it on the floor between Douglas’s feet. The bin proves to be serendipitous, as less than thirty seconds later he’s retching what feels like every Kit Kat he’s ever thought of eating. And just when Douglas thinks his mortification has reached an all-time high, he feels the sofa dip to his side and a tentative hand between his shoulder blades.

Blessedly, Martin says nothing, just asks Arthur to leave them alone for a bit and close the blinds on his way out. The young man complies without a word, and leaves as silently as they came in. Douglas’s insides stop attempting to turn themselves inside out, but he can’t seem to muster the energy to lift his head. Martin seems content to sit there in silence, though he moves his hand to the back of Douglas’s neck.

Eventually, Carolyn returns with the medic, who orders Douglas to Fitton Hospital for x-rays and concussion monitoring. The first officer can only muster up a weak glare, but Carolyn, in a fit of motherly prescience, waves off his concern. “Nope. I don't want to hear a bit of arguing,” she says. “Heaven knows you're too stubborn to go on your own, and I'm not leaving you to a night of painkillers and whiskey. Martin, take him to hospital.”

Suddenly, waves of exhaustion crash over Douglas and his knees nearly buckle under the onslaught. Martin is luckily close enough to grab hold of his bicep and prevent his total collapse. The conversation is cut short, and the first officer removed to his Lexus before he really fully comprehends what’s just happened. What happens next is a whirlwind of motion, prodding, questions, waiting, x-rays, waiting, and more waiting before he's finally released with a diagnosis of a badly sprained wrist, strained back, and (blessedly) no concussion. Martin still has his keys and maneuvers Douglas out of the hospital and back into the car without so much as a by-your-leave. By the time Douglas has organized his objections into a coherent sentence, they’ve arrived at his house and Martin has hustled him to the door. The doorbell goes unanswered, so Martin uses Douglas’s key to let them into the house.

They stand in the foyer for a bit before Martin prods Douglas into showing him the way to the bedroom. The younger man stands in the doorway, keeping watch as Douglas fishes out gym shorts and a soft t-shirt from the smaller of the two chest of drawers in the large bedroom.

“If I leave you alone for a bit, will you be alright?”

Douglas nods, which proves to be a mistake as the world greys out again and he’s forced to sit on the bed. He covers quickly, or so he assumes, by pretending he sat down to take his shoes and socks off, and Martin leaves to go find a glass of water. When he returns the room, Douglas is already under the duvet, lying on his back but with such an expression of pain on his face that Martin feels a twinge of worry. This is nothing like the unflappable first officer he’s used to. As he accepts the water and takes the painkillers the medico had given him, Douglas suddenly looks every minute of his 48 years. Martin watches as he attempts to find a comfortable position on his back, eventually giving up and gingerly turning over onto his front.

A sudden idea strikes Martin. “Douglas,” he asks. “Do you have a heating pad or anything?”

“’nder t’sink in b’throom” Douglas slurs with exhaustion, and Martin hastens to locate the item. After warming it in the microwave, he returns to the room, nudging the duvet-covered lump gently. Douglas takes the heating pad and shuffles around a bit until he’s placed it properly on his back, and huffs a sigh of relief.

Martin stands awkwardly in the room for a minute, shifting from foot to foot. Eventually, he clears his throat hesitantly. “Douglas?”

“Mmmmm”

“Where’s your wife?”

Silence. Then a muzzy “W’t day ‘sit?”

Martin’s face creases in worry, even as he replies “Tuesday.”

A longer pause. “W’t t’m ‘sit?”

Martin checks his watch. “1546 local.”

“Tai chi” Douglas replies. “St’p talking.”

Martin chuckles softly and leaves the bedroom, closing the door gently behind him. He browses the Richardsons’ not-inconsiderable selection of books until he finds a biography on Charles Yeager. Typical he smirks to himself. Douglas would pick the cockiest, most arrogant pilot around to feature in his library. But he settles in nonetheless to wait for Douglas’s wife to get home. If nothing else, he’ll get to meet the latest victim of the Richardson charm. He expects it will prove enlightening.


End file.
